


Movie Night

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Sidelined by a snow storm and a Winchester’s whim, a mopey reader misses a certain blue-eyed seraph. Pining/longing and powder-white fluff.





	Movie Night

Dean racks the pool balls – the echoing clink of the resin rises above the pleasant din of conversation in the bar. He smirks, winks, and murmurs something in a self-assured husky tone to the sturdy brunette with an arm draped across his shoulders as he chalks the stick and prepares for the break shot. The brunette giggles into her cocktail – too enthusiastically, too loosely.

If you were paying any attention to the company surrounding the table, you would see the disparaging roll of Sam’s hazel eyes in response to his brother’s shameless flirtation. He’s decided in this moment he’ll definitely be stuck sleeping in the Impala. Your regard drifts beyond the yellow glow of lamplight illuminating the table and the sibling antics of the Winchesters – focus fixed on the entrance to the hall. The thick tar-stained oak door swings inward and the sleeve of a tan coat appears in the opening. The smiling mien of a bearded stranger follows – not the handsome stolid features of the angel you hoped to see.

Dean takes his shot. The sharp crack fractures the atmosphere and your reverie, the chaotic scatter of balls muffled by green felt.

You flinch at the noise. Concurrently, your phone vibrates and you nearly topple your glass of beer in haste to peer down at the device clutched in your fingers. It’s nothing more than a weather alert advising of the snowstorm. The very same snowstorm Dean insisted he wasn’t driving through when he detoured with a decidedly undemocratic vote early afternoon to this particular bar situated conveniently across from a pay-by-the-hour or night, whatever you fancy, motel with the neon vacancy sign lit gleaming red.

Instead of a cozy evening in the bunker, cuddling with the angel you adore and watching Netflix, you’re now an unwitting accessory to Dean’s desire to get laid. Sighing, you concede _cuddling_ is probably too strong a descriptor anyway for sitting on opposite ends of the couch casting furtive glances at one another every few minutes.

This thing between you and Castiel – it’s complex, and for all you know entirely one-sided, potentially even non-existent, or at the very least not nearly as complicated as you believe. You don’t know what to call it, but when you’re near him you feel lighter and more yourself than when you’re with anyone else. You don’t have to pretend with him – don’t need to act out the part of the tough, confident, unwavering, and never self-doubting hunter role you don with others. You let your guard down in his presence. You feel vulnerable with him. And although your pulse quickens and your cheeks tint rosy beneath the intensity of his blue regard – this vulnerability doesn’t scare you like you believe it should because at the same time you feel safe in his presence. Whatever it is, whether it’s reciprocated or not, you crave the angel’s companionship and being apart from him tonight, when you were supposed to reunite at the bunker after a week spent working separate hunts, pits your soul with hollow longing.

 _Damnit Dean,_ you think, exhaling another deep sigh. _Not like anyone else had plans tonight. Plans_ – there you go exaggerating again, as if a variable and ultimately impromptu movie night relying on both of you defying the lethality of your occupation to survive another day was a firm plan. The shared tradition isn’t exactly etched in stone; yet somehow, after every case, whether worked together or apart, you both drift to that same overstuffed hardly rodent-gnawed at all leather couch unearthed from the recesses of the bunker’s storage room. It’s a standing date, except for the fact it also isn’t.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam’s sinewy digits touch your wrist, wrenching you from your thoughts. He probably noticed all the discontented sighing.

“Yeah, never better,” you snort, feigning a strained half-smile. The brothers don’t know how you feel. Or if they do, they’re smart enough not to directly insinuate anything. “Nowhere else I’d rather be. I mean, playing the part of an unnamed extra in Dean’s weather-related whims turned benders turned booty-calls is literally the highlight of my existence. You of all people must know what an honor it is just to be an obligatory part of these momentous occasions.”

“Yeah, right. A real honor,” Sam chuckles, drawing a long draught from his pint of beer and scowling at his jovial brother. Wiping his mouth with the back of his red-flannel shirt sleeve he steadies his gaze again on you and continues prying. “You just seem…quieter than usual,” he points out, gesturing at your untouched beer, ever the diplomat in his word choice. “You sure you’re feelin’ alright? I could walk you to your room if you want to turn in.”

Your gaze follows his to the forgotten warm amber ale perched in a puddle of condensation. “Golden,” you insist again. “Maybe a little overtired is all. You know, you boys went and spoiled me offering me a place to call home. I suppose I’m missing the comfort of my own bed and what not.”

“Uh huh,” Sam smirks and sips his beer to suppress the shadow of a smile that sneaks to his lips. “Does this what not you so casually reference have a name?” he murmurs through the foamy fizz of the alcohol.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words leap off your tongue with rawer defensiveness than you intend – so much for the brothers not suspecting anything.

“Nothing,” he hums in mock-contrition, nodding toward the cell in your hands and failing to suppress the smile lighting up his eyes. “You, uh, you hear from Cas yet?” he asks as if he wasn’t just alluding to the angel. “He make it home okay?”

You stare at the muted black screen of the phone and shake your head.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he reassures. Amusement in his features dissolving with sincerity, he extends a lanky limb in your direction to squeeze your arm. “What’s a little snow storm to an angel of the Lord?”

“Depends,” you deadpan. “Did Dean replace those bald tires on his truck yet like he said he would?”

Dean’s boisterous booming laughter draws the consideration of both you and Sam. You both agree to yourselves without speaking it’s good to see the elder Winchester letting loose – good to see that twinkle of joy sparking in his eyes. He deserves this distraction, no matter how mopey you might be as a result.

“Hey, you know he’ll call you as soon as he can.” Sam’s fingers prod lightly at your shoulder. “He always does, right?”

“Or he’ll call Dean, or you,” you correct. “I’m no one special.”

A frown traces Sam’s mouth and he moves nearer to stoop and press a chaste kiss to the top of your head, whispering into your hair, “That’s not true.”

“Like you’d know.” You brush off his comment as blind surrogate-brotherly affection despite the hopeful flutter of your heart.

“Well, Sam’s the brains of this operation, so whatever he says is probably true,” Dean muses, totteringly drunk in his approach and blissfully ignorant as to what the conversation is about as he sidles up to his brother and smacks him hard enough on the back to cause Sam to lurch forward under the impact and spill his beer on you.

“What the shit, Dean!” you hiss, recoiling backward too late to avoid the splattering beverage saturating your shirt. Well, it’s technically Dean’s shirt you borrowed, but he still doesn’t have the right to be so careless when it’s you wearing it.

“Sorry, sweetheart!” Dean pecks a sloppy kiss to your cheek. Wagging his chin, he arches a meaningful brow toward the buxom brunette grabbing her coat from a hook on the far wall. Throwing his arm across Sam’s shoulders, he yanks him down to eye level and ruffles his hair, murmuring, “So much space in that big noggin for that giant brain, right Sammy?” Freeing his protesting brother, he pulls the Impala’s keys from a pocket, jangles them once, and slaps them hard to Sam’s chest. “Which is why I don’t have to explain the sleeping arrangements tonight.” Jostling the wincing Sam roughly, he grins and repeats, “Right Sammy?”

“Right.” Sam huffs and reluctantly grabs the keys.

Dean careens himself in the direction of the door to recommence his midnight rendezvous.

Grimacing, Sam smooths his disheveled hair.

You suck in a shallow breath – the bar atmosphere suddenly stodgy in your lungs. The aroma of booze soaking your clothes doesn’t help. “I’m gonna get some fresh air,” you mutter, slipping away toward the rear exit before Sam can object.

Leaning into the door, it shovels a curving path through the piling snow as you push it outward. The bracing air instantly stings your cheeks and frosts your lashes. You climb onto a picnic table sheltered beneath an awning and wedged kitty-corner to a wall. Flipping the lapels of your jacket up to shield your neck from the draft of wind and hugging your arms across your body to retain warmth, you peer out into the bleary expanse of the white-washed field stretching out behind the building. A wayward dusting of snowflakes gathers on the dark denim of your jeans, glittering in individually unique icy glory before body heat ferries them into obscurity. The starkness of the snow, the cushioning embrace of every subtle sound, is stunning.

Caught up in the beauty of the landscape, senses numbed by the cool air and the rhythmic flap of the canvas canopy catching the breeze over uncounted minutes, you startle at the familiar gravelly tone emergent behind you.

“Sam said I’d find you out here.”

You turn, surprise widened eyes landing on Castiel. While you hoped he would show up when you texted earlier to say you and the Winchesters regretfully would not arrive home tonight, you had not dared imagine he would actually make the trip.

“Aren’t you cold?” He strides forward to stand beside the table, squinting into the bleached night, whipping wind tousling his dark curls.

Your teeth chatter, “I-I, y-yeah, m-m-may be a l-little ch-chilly.” Joints frigid, you stiffly slide off the table and rub your tingling limbs in a futile attempt to produce friction.

He shrugs the trench coat off his shoulders and spins to settle it around your shivering form, asking, “Is that any better?”

You nod, but it’s the warm regard of his shining blues and proximity more than the weight of the fabric that flushes you head to toe with heat. The wind gusts and you steady your swaying frame with a palm pressed to his chest.

Clasping a broad hand to your elbow, he pivots to buffer you from the swelling squall. “We should go inside,” he says, dropping his chin to look at where your trembling fingers still rest, throat bobbing in a thick gulp, “it’s warmer in there.”

“N-no,” you object, curling your fingertips into the fabric of his shirt. “I-l like it out here. It’s f-fine. The snow-”

“-is lovely. I agree,” he finishes, as though reading your mind. “At least let’s sit in the truck. I can run the engine for heat.”

“Okay,” you assent, following as he leads you around the perimeter to the outskirts of the parking lot and ushers you, fingers lingering at the small of your back, into the cabin of his truck.

The metal door slams with a muffled thud and he moves to the driver’s side to clamber in himself – a swirl of snow sweeping in with him as he shuts the screeching door. Twisting the key, the engine sputters begrudgingly to life. A local religious radio program blares from the speakers. “Sorry,” he apologizes, fingers outstretching to silence the radio and turn up the heat. “It’ll, uh, take a few minutes for it to kick in,” he mumbles. He flicks the windshield wipers to clear the snow collecting on the glass and blocking your view. “I think,” he adds, rotating the knob for the heater again, spinning it to the maximum setting, brow furrowing in reflection. “I mean…I never use the heat. I expect it works. Dean said the AC is shot though. So perhaps-”

Fixated on his every action and word, you wonder why he can’t seem to stop fidgeting or rambling. It’s not like him to be so outwardly flustered. “Cas?” you interrupt.

“Hmm,” he hums, still absorbed in jabbing at the temperature controls.

“Why are you here?”

He freezes, torso expanding and contracting in a deep and totally unnecessary breath as he abandons the knob to recline against the seatback. He tilts to face you, features soft, the hint of a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, simply offering in explanation, “I, uh…it’s movie night.”

With those words, you know he feels the same longing you harbor in your heart – the _why_ is that he missed you. And now that you’re here together, it doesn’t matter that you’re sheltered in a rusty truck with no heat in the midst of the biggest snowstorm to descend on the Great Plains states in nearly a half-century. You scooch across the seat to snuggle against him.

He willingly opens his arms to nestle you close.

Smile on your lips, watching snow blanket the world beyond the truck cabin, listening to the soundtrack of your angel’s beating heart accompanied by the buffet of wind and patter of ice crystals against glass, it dawns on you just before slumber seizes that this is your favorite genre of movie – a love story with impossible odds.


End file.
